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Poème d'un jour, Op 21

Introduction

Fauré here writes his first cycle (given as Op 17 on the autograph). It has nothing of the architecture of the densely organized La bonne chanson with its network of cyclic borrowings and self-quotation. Rather is the Poème d’un jour a cycle in the manner of Robert Schumann’s Frauenliebe und -leben where each song is an individual entity that depends for its cyclic effect on an implied narrative chronology. The Schumann cycle about a woman’s life and love unfolds over at least a year, possibly longer. Fauré sets tighter parameters: Poème d’un jour means what it says – this love affair, from meeting to parting, takes place in a single day. This fact alone limits the emotional range of the music; passion is illusory and impermanent, the rueful farewell marks the end of an affair so short that it cannot be taken any more seriously by the listener than it has been by the lovers themselves. A further factor in rendering the cycle lightweight is the versification of Grandmougin which matches the sentimentality found in the women’s magazines of the time. Is this a deliberate parody of Massenet’s highly successful series of ‘Poème’ cycles (four of which had been published by 1878) where the texts are equally saccharine? At the same time as despising Massenet’s populist touch, Fauré would not have turned his nose up at the commercial success of mélodies by the composer of Manon.

One is very tempted to see an autobiographical side to this little cycle which is perhaps nearer to Schumann’s Heine triptych Tragödie than to Frauenliebe und -leben. The manner of conducting an affair as outlined in this cycle seems curiously prophetic of the composer’s many liaisons. Fauré was caught in an unsatisfactory marriage (from 1883), but divorce was never contemplated (probably for the sake of the children). Nevertheless, his affairs were legendary – this examiner of the provincial conservatoires had a woman in every port. He was noted for his laconic charm, and he must have broken many hearts – particularly those of ladies who allowed themselves to imagine that he would leave his difficult wife having found ‘true love’. There were mistresses of protracted influence (Emma Bardac, Marguerite Hasselmans), but Fauré’s affairs were, on the whole, ‘poèmes d’un jour’ (or a few weeks) with a deft exit strategy. He must have been adept at charm (the first song), showing just enough glints of passion (the second), followed by something like the elegant retreat of the third. These extrications probably saved Fauré’s marriage and reputation (compare Debussy’s domestic linen washed in public), and increased his reputation for inscrutability.

Recordings

'Recording and presentation are the stuff of dreams. Hyperion has done Fauré proud' (Gramophone)'The songs certainly show Fauré to possess a far wider expressive range than an acquaintance with just a handful of his best-known examples would sugg ...» More

'This varied and generous selection of 28 songs is perhaps the best general introduction to this important side of Fauré's output and is also one of G ...'Deeply considered and deeply moving performances' (BBC Record Review)» More

'this is singing which is always alive, interesting, and personal … a fascinating record' (Gramophone)'[Schade] sings Strauss’s Cäcilie and a wonderfully hushed Zueignung as though he and Martineau were the first to discover their ecstasy ...» More

I was sad and pensive when I met you,
Today I feel less my persistent pain;
O tell me, could you be the long hoped-for woman,
And the ideal dream pursued in vain?

O passer-by with gentle eyes, could you be the friend
To restore the lonely poet’s happiness,
And will you shine on my steadfast soul
Like native sky on an exiled heart?

Your timid sadness, like my own,
Loves to watch the sun set on the sea!
Such boundless space awakes your rapture,
And your fair soul prizes the evenings’ charm.

A mysterious and gentle sympathy
Already binds me to you like a living bond,
And my soul quivers, overcome by love,
And my heart, without knowing you well, adores you.

English: Richard Stokes

This is music of the greatest urbanity and elegance. It spins a line as surely as the young man spins his, a progression of murmured endearments with artfully placed climactic moments of ardour. How many young men have told a girl they have just met that a strange and mysterious chemistry inexplicably binds them? If the narrator claims to be ‘triste et pensif’, he is neither very sad, nor very thoughtful. We have the impression that he has said these words, or words like them, many times before. The purling progress of the music seems to be on automatic pilot. The ceaseless flow of semiquavers, seraphically shared between the hands, adds to this impression. This is not to deny that Fauré’s music is remarkable – indeed, only he could have written these pages of great harmonic sophistication where the modulatory twists and turns are so discreetly managed that we are less aware than we should be of the considerable musical felicities that are unique to this composer. There are high notes for the singer, but for all its mellifluous progress the music lacks depth, one feels deliberately: the music is as dapper as the elegantly attired young man who sings it. He is not exactly a Don Giovanni; he lacks the diabolical energy for heartless seduction. No, this lover has convinced himself of his sincerity, as far as it goes; but singers are well-advised not to push the boat out in an attempt to match the gushing hyperbole of the verse. Fauré is wise enough to avoid eloquence in a phrase like ‘Devant l’immensité ton extase s’éveille’; the line droops gently rather than rises. After all, this is not yet Verlaine in La bonne chanson, hell-bent on marriage, and contemplating connubial bliss. The inevitable parting is already foretold in the beginning of this liaison.

The fact that Fauré has constructed this cycle for himself out of various disparate poems by Grandmougin is shown by the inconsistency of the singer’s form of address: in the first song, having just met his lady love, he presumes to ‘tutoyer’ her; in the second and third songs, as intimacy is surely meant to increase, he addresses her as ‘vous’. (Of course he may have reverted to this formality as a result of her temporary rejection, but this seems unlikely.) Perhaps the girl has made a maidenly effort to slow down the onslaught of the young man’s affections. In Toujours the rebuffed lover plays the passion card; he invokes the stars and heavens in his anguish. These thundering triplets owe much to Fauré’s writing for chamber ensembles; undulations between the hands are craftily deployed to generate a remarkable power. And crafty the song somehow remains. The effect, after the bluster has died down (which it does rather quickly, for it is a short song), is of a storm in a teacup. The piano chords at the end admit as much; it is as if the young suitor is exhausted by his pose. Not for a moment do we share his pain – the imagery is too pat, and the vehement outpourings flow too smoothly, as if schooled by a shade too much experience. Of course he puts up a tremendous show as the bruised lover, and in a fine performance this song can be most exciting, but we never believe in this music, certainly not in the same way that we are drawn in to songs like Fleur jetée and Larmes. As far as the story line is concerned the song does the trick: we must assume that the protagonist gets his way with the girl as a result of these infatuated protestations. If we imagine a morning meeting (the first song), Toujours is sung over lunch, and there is the whole afternoon to be enjoyed – a lovers’ siesta – before the inevitable evening parting. (Grandmougin’s first published volume of poetry was Les siestes, 1874.) Officially this affair fizzles out in the third song without consummation. But the public, then as now, is inclined to read between the lines.

How swiftly all things die, the rose
In bloom,
And the cool dappled mantle
Of the meadows;
Long-drawn sighs, loved ones,
All smoke!
In this fickle world we see
Our dreams
Change more swiftly than waves
On the shore;
Our hearts change more swiftly than patterns
Of frosted flowers.

To you I thought I would be faithful,
Cruel one,
But alas! The longest loves
Are short!
And I say, taking leave of your charms,
Without tears,
Almost at the moment of my avowal,
Farewell!

Adieu is the best song of the three. It is the first in a long line of songs in 4/4 with gently throbbing crotchet accompaniments; over this seemingly neutral background an inspired melodic line, a wonderful flowering, is cradled and nurtured – the same can be said of Le secret , and of one of this composer’s last songs, Diane, Séléné. The music for Adieu is ruefully relaxed; it speaks of satiation rather than voluptuous languour (abiding by Fauré’s relatively fleet metronome marking is important here) and it is clear the singer is no longer motivated by passion. It is part of the amorous game to part from a lady with expressions of tender regret. We can only hope that his erstwhile partner is equally philosophical (we sense that her feelings are not even taken into account). This cynical edge notwithstanding, Fauré’s music is beautifully moulded; a minore middle section, a temporary touch of urgency, allows the music to regain the poise of the major key. The final ‘Adieu!’ is suspended on a high F, a tied pair of semibreves, as the two lovers float into each others’ pasts. The song is an admirable exercise in restraint for those full-hearted singers who struggle to master the essential detachment inherent in Fauré’s style; if Adieu sounds anything like Rudolfo’s farewell to Mimi, the singer has entered the Parisian ‘vie de bohème’ through the wrong stage door.